Fragile Creations
by Ananke
Summary: Believing Jack Dawson dead, Rose continued with her life, determined to keep her promise. However, in 1930, the past would return...and everything built by both would be threatened.
1. Default Chapter

April 15th, 1912   
  
"Come about!" The steady, forceful scream brought Rose Dewitt Bukater back to reality with a cold shiver, and she pressed once more against the flotsam, fingers dropping the officer's whistle and scratching for resistance. Don't slip under the water, oh, God, not the water, Jack did...  
  
Gasping with what she realized were both coughs and tears, she finally gave in to the urgent shouts above and let her grip relax, heart thumping slowly, too slowly, as warm hands...no, perhaps not warm, but not frozen...grasped her arms and lifejacket, pulling her into the lifeboat with soft, broken murmuring.   
  
"Easy now, luv, we've got you..."  
  
"She's pale as a doll, I tell ya. She's not gonna make it..."  
  
"You said that about the Italian, and he's still breathing. Look, over there, that fellow. Pull him in as well, do you hear me? That's an order, right..."  
  
"He's stiff, I tell ya."  
  
"Stop telling me and grab him, man. We've got plenty of room. Look, we've room, and its the least we can do, bring him back. A proper funeral."  
  
"Too poor for a funeral, might as well leave him be. He'll go down in the water and stay there good this time, if we just let him."  
  
"We already let him, that's why he's stiff. I'm not doin it again. Grab him, men, that's right, nice and easy."  
  
Jack? Struggling to waken, Rose fought the scream rising.  
  
"Here, Miss, lie back now, you're sick and all that fighting won't help you."  
  
"Let me go." The words were raw, raspy, the best she could manage, and even that small effort sent pain shooting up her throat, in her head..."Let him go, let him go, I don't want him in here." Not Jack, no, he didn't deserve some shanty charity funeral, she couldn't, didn't know how to arrange better, and he deserved so much better. At least the ocean was natural, and he wasn't alone...  
  
"First class, always carping about sharing space with the trash, even when the trash is dead." Disgusted, a rougher voice broke out angrily. "Sod-minded, these people, after all this, and still carrying on..."  
  
"Shut up." Cold, firm, and authoritative, the young officer's voice cut in. "She's sick, and I won't have your grumbling ringing in her ears. We're all in this together, now."  
  
Now? Now, after over half were dead? Tears stinging down her cold face, Rose shivered again. The voice lowered, became soothing, as lean hands busily tucked a blanket under her chin. "Just a while longer, and you'll rest easy on a rescue boat. Just sleep, Miss..."  
  
Allowing her face to fall within the warm shelter of the woolen blanket, Rose shivered again, and gave up trying to get through to them. The tears still settled under her lashes, she drifted off into sleep for the second time that morning.  
  
  
Winter, 1930  
  
Lifting cold fingers, the actress rubbed away at the waxy stage rouge, peering upward into the dressing mirror. It wasn't Rose Dawson's face that she was wearing this night, any more than Rose Dewitt Bukater's. It was a cold face, a face familiar with mimicked emotion, forced smiles and tears, and it wasn't a pleasant face. Not young and fresh enough for the calling for much longer, at any rate.   
  
You've burned your candle at both ends, Rosie girl, she told herself wryly, and its time to give up the ghost already. There are certainly other dreams to pursue.  
  
But give up acting? Surely, not so soon. It had only been a decade since her first tremulous stage scene, there were actresses who continued on in the dramatic tradition for far longer. To be sure. They just weren't taken seriously, or were little more than bedroom entertainers, or comedians...  
  
The small voice of Rose Dewitt Bukater within Rose Calvert firmly reviled those labels. Neither of her alter-egos raised a protest. Rose, in general, was tired of fighting them, and the lines she had drawn for herself...she'd come to wonder just what in her life she was holding on to out of genuine affection, and what was dutiful flotsam. The acting dream, perhaps. Rebellion, perhaps. Her family, yes, God help her, almost certainly. She had outgrown them, in her way...a woman of thirty five years, and rapidly discovering disillusionment all over again.   
  
Oh, if she were to be perfectly fair about it, she wasn't being perfectly fair. Her life was wonderful. She had health, financial freedom, respect...two gorgeous kids and a husband that...while not Jack Dawson, was perhaps the closest substitution.  
  
And for that she felt tremendously guilty, every day of her life.  
  
His name was Calvert, a stage name, of course. It was an amusing little creation of her own, after too many cups of coffee and too little inspiration...or the wrong sort of inspiration, that money of Cal's she'd found in the coat pocket, miraculously undamaged. It had given both she and her companion the opportunity for a new life, most unwittingly, and so she had used that gift. 'Cal' for the man himself, and 'vert' for green, an indication of the money leading them to their new life. Pity Mr. Hockley hadn't lived long enough for her to wave the insult in his face.  
  
You've grown hard, Rose, she told herself grimly, tugging a brush through her shorter, more styled hair, then, in a fit of frustration, slamming it against the mirror and shoving the rouge tins aside, cradling her head in her hands. No, not hard, just confused. She loved her husband, her family. They were...had been...happy, despite the unavoidable financial scrapes and binds. Why so unhappy now? Why be ungrateful for what she had, why dwell on what she didn't have?   
  
"Mummy!" The dressing room door slammed open, admitting the usual nightly crowd, and she turned, smile genuine. "I learned more Italian today!"  
  
"Oh, you did?" Swiftly tickling her daughter and then settling her in mothers arms, Rose calmly pushed aside her earlier frustration and met her husbands eyes over the child's head. He grinned tired greeting, nodding down at the sleeping baby boy in his arms, eyes worriedly taking in the scattered pots of makeup and the cracked mirror. Rose ignored the querying glances he was giving her, instead turning to the child before her. "Tell me, just what is it that you learned?"  
  
Marinna Rosia Calvert grinned, hair falling in tendrils about her face as she looked up, nine year old face glowing. "Papa says that my name means 'from the sea'."  
  
"That it does." Standing and releasing the fragile little girl long enough to pull on her coat, Rose smiled, mind drifting back involuntarily. Oh, the memories themselves didn't sting quite as much anymore, she'd long ago pushed them back. It was just...they weren't supposed to crop back up, not this suddenly, not this particular one. Sighing slightly, she put on her gypsy face, glancing down into her daughters eager face. "The ocean is a part of your destiny, Marinna. Your father and I met out on it...we might never have met otherwise. And had destiny dictated a little differently, we might never have been given the chance to have a life together. When we finally got around to having you, Marinna just seemed a perfect name."  
  
"But you don't like to go to the ocean." Accepting her mothers hand, the young girl fell into step between her parents, skipping stones as they headed down the street to home. It was only a temporary one, really, Mummy and Papa moved a lot with their acting work, but they had told her that each and every place was a home, to remember it. Glancing to and fro between them, her cheer disappeared. Papa, still trying to be quiet for Tomisio, had still managed a sharp intake of breath, and was glancing over at her mother with his best 'worry' face. Mummy, for her part, had on her 'very sad' face.   
  
"It's very hard to explain, Marinna." Papa explained, speaking in low tones. "When you grow more."  
  
"We can't hold off on it forever, Fabrizio." Rose let him unlatch the apartment door, taking baby Tom into her arms.  
  
"She's nine years old, only." Like always, when he was upset, the Italian fell back into broken English.  
  
"Cora Cartmell was younger."  
  
"Why d'you have to bring all that up now?"  
  
"Because I've restrained myself from bringing it up before? Because I'm tired of bottled memories and bottled emotions?"  
  
"Oh, Christo..."  
  
"Fabri, I received flowers from Jack Dawson today."  
  
In the ensuing silence, Marinna didn't like the look that passed between her parents at all. Her mother stood back against the door, expression almost fragile, pitying, and Papa just...wilted.   
  
Finally, Fabrizio De Rossi Calvert moved, kicking on the lights, turning to face his little family with crossed arms. "Marinna, take Tomisio to bed with you. Your mama and I, we have to talk."  
  
"Yes." The actress nodded, a faint, unamused smile playing across her lips. Bending, she kissed each child on the forehead, settling the baby into his sisters arms gently, then straightening, hands flattening against her hips in defense. "We do." 


	2. FragileTwo

May 1912  
  
A thousand knives stabbing him all over his body.   
  
Jack Dawson remembered the feeling, and didn't appreciate it a bit. Stretching uncomfortably underneath the cool sheets wrapped around his aching body, he forced his eyes open, taking in the view with cautious disorientation. He was in hospital, alive. Grand place, full of clean floors and big beds, velvet curtained windows. Not in his price range, ever, so it was a handout. That was a start.  
  
Rose.  
  
Christ.  
  
Jerking upright, he struggled against the restraints, ignoring the nurse barreling his way. "Where is she?"  
  
The blonde, calm, young, fresh, only pushed him back down, pulling the sheet up. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Now, you're going to have to stay here."  
  
"Who's asking?" Okay, maybe he was being rude to the lady, but this high class hospital setup reeked of Hockley. And he didn't exactly trust the bastard who'd tried to kill both he and Rose. Him more than once. "And where am I? I can't feel my legs. Why're you tying me down?"  
  
"It's in your own best interest. You shouldn't be up and about yet, you suffered excruciating degrees of hypothermia. You've been given sedatives to numb the feeling in your legs, you wouldn't have slept decently otherwise. It'll wear off soon." The blond met his gaze, unruffled. "One question at a time."  
  
"Did Hockley hire you?"  
  
"I was hired to nurse you back to health and keep you safe from Hockley."  
  
"By Rose Dewitt Bukater?" Maybe, just maybe, she had survived, and he could contact her, and this nightmare could end right.   
  
Briefly, the smile flickered , sympathy pooling in the brown eyes. "Mr. Dawson, I've kept some recent papers handy for this event. Perhaps I should leave you alone to read them. You can read?"  
  
"I'm not ignorant. Don't outdo yourself with thoughtfulness, you might as well stay." Pride stinging, he took the papers she handed him, flexing his bandaged hands as the restraints loosened.   
  
"No, I don't suppose you are, and I won't." Nodding slightly, she stepped back quietly, watching..  
  
Brows knitting quizzically, he unrolled the sheath of newsprint. All kinds, anywhere from tabloid to society pages, and the face of Rose Dewitt Bukater splashed across all of them. The late Rose Dewitt Bukater. "This isn't possible. She was on a piece of wood. I tried to keep her out of the water. Look, whoever rescued me, didn't they see her?"  
  
"According to the White Star Line, you were alone by that driftwood, Jack, and no Rose Dewitt Bukater gave her name as a survivor."  
  
"They must be covering it up, then, for reputation, or something, it figures. What about Rose Dawson?" The idea was crazy, but he was desperate. "Look, maybe she used another name, she didn't exactly want to go back to her family."  
  
"All names on the list are accounted for. Rose isn't one of the faces to go with them. I'm sorry." Perching on the edge of the bed, the still nameless nurse met his gaze.   
  
"Are you?" He threw the papers aside, staring up at the ceiling in frustration. "You didn't know her."  
  
"I'm told that you and this Rose met on the Titanic. It was a three day voyage. Do you really suppose you knew her very well either?"  
  
Jack didn't have an answer to that. Of course he'd thought he knew Rose...but really, three days was only enough to scratch the surface. Still, it was three days he knew he'd be haunted by the rest of his life. Balling up the papers, he sighed. "Hockley."  
  
"Caledon Hockley has requested that I leave you with his address and contact information. He seems to be expecting your rightful ire. Perhaps you should go talk to him. He doesn't strike me as a man who is hiding anything, seems fairly grief-stricken, in his own way, of course."  
  
"Maybe." Rubbing his forehead, he straightened. "So he hired you, Miss..."  
  
"Marguerite. Call me Molly."  
  
Winter 1930  
  
Molly Dawson recognized a crack in domestic harmony when she saw one.  
  
Stepping into the modest bungalow she and her bohemian of a husband shared, the petite blonde sighed, dropping the sack of groceries she carried in the foyer. Jack sat in the ragged old armchair he preferred, fliers scattered all over his lap, brows drawn up in his best imitation of moody annoyance. Unfortunately, he wasn't terrifically good at looking mean. "Okay, Dawson, what's the problem?"  
  
He eyed her. "I found fliers from a local theater group."  
  
"There are a few around."  
  
"Rose DAWSON Calvert is featured."  
  
"Oh, not HER. Do old flames never stay dead?" Truthfully, she wasn't a bit surprised, had run across the fliers herself. She'd been expecting a swift run-in with the past.  
  
"Don't be snide, Molly. You lied to me."  
  
"I told you that all names on the survivor list were accounted for."  
  
"But certain names weren't on the list. Mine. That means that not everyone who survived was listed."  
  
"You weren't a registered passenger, Jack. A stowaway, for all purposes. How would that've looked to the families of the legitimate passengers, their people dying while stowaways lived?"  
  
Ignoring the sarcasm, he plowed on. "And if Rose had changed her name, a name not registered, it wouldn't have been included either."  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"Is that your answer to everything?"  
  
"Listen, Dawson." Leaning over, she met his gaze angrily. "I kept you safe when you weren't terribly keen about keeping yourself safe. Had you tried going after this divine Rose of yours, Hockley's benevolence would have very quickly turned ugly. You needed the medical care and he was the one paying for it."  
  
"You didn't know me, for God's sake!"  
  
"Oh, so now you have to be the other half of a three day love affair to give a damn?"  
  
"Molly..."  
  
"Jack, I've spent the better part of twenty years wiping up your messes. I wheeled you around when you couldn't walk on those frost-bitten legs of yours, I convinced doctors not to amputate, I pulled you out of depressions, I followed you into war and when you lost the dexterity of those artists fingers of yours I pulled you out of more depression. I've sacrificed a lot. And despite it all, there's always a thin glass wall I can't climb, the Rose wall. I never knew the woman, but I've really come to dislike her, and envy her."  
  
"At least you're honest." He muttered, running the said fingers through his shaggy hair.   
  
She sighed, sitting down. "Okay, Dawson. I know I'll live to regret it, but...why don't you go to this performance of your Rose's?"  
  
"You think that's a good idea?" He glanced up, expression more vulnerable than she'd ever seen it.  
  
"No, not really." Blunt honesty, always worked. "But I doubt either of us could live with ourselves otherwise. I still might not be able to live with myself, but if you'll sleep easy, I guess one out of two isn't all that bad."  
  
He stood, brushing her forehead with his lips as he headed for the door. "Molly, you're something else."  
  
"Yeah, just not the hoity-toity Rose Dewitt Bukater kind of something else you're still head over heels for."   
  
The slamming door swallowed his answer.  
  
~  
  
Hours later Jack Dawson wasn't so sure it was a good idea. He wasn't the theater type. Come to think of it, he didn't even look like the theater type, the backstage guard's dubious look and reluctant step aside had confirmed it. And he had no idea what he was planning to do. Sweep Rose Dawson Calvert into his arms and kiss her senseless, after yelling himself hoarse? No, probably not a good idea, Molly wouldn't like it a bit, and Calvert probably wouldn't appreciate the sentiment either. Whoever Calvert was. No telling what the lady herself would think.  
  
Rubbing a thumb on the bridge of his nose, the artist turned entrepreneur leaned against a wall, peering at the sign on the door in front of him, gripping the flowers in his other hand tight enough to send pains through the still unhealed extremity.  
  
"You looking for somebody?"   
  
Starting, he glanced across the hall as another dressing room door swung open, revealing an older brunette. "Is Rose De..uh, Calvert in there?"  
  
"She oughta be, pulling off that makeup. Probably tired as a raced colt, though, I'd tread lightly. and..." A smile cracked the painted lips. "Her husband usually drops in a couple of hours from now to take her home. You'd better carry a stopwatch."  
  
"Very funny. You remind me of my wife."  
  
"Lucky you."  
  
Grinning at the typical response, he knocked on the door lightly, watching as the brunette retreated. Finally, after a minute, the artfully decorated door opened, and very familiar, only faintly aged eyes stared out, widening.   
  
"Rose..."  
  
The actress within released the door, stepping back, lips parting. "You look...I'm sorry, do I know you?"  
  
"Rose." Oh, God. He stepped tentatively across the threshold. "I...I know it's a shock. It's me."  
  
They stared in silence for a moment, before he finally held out the flowers, smiling awkwardly. "Not roses, I'm afraid."  
  
With something between a gasp and a sob, she barreled into his arms, and whatever thin control he held vanished. For the first time in nearly two decades, Jack Dawson cried. 


End file.
